


The Island

by alivehawk1701



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Boys Kissing, Established Relationship, Homophobic Language, M/M, POV Alternating, Vacation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivehawk1701/pseuds/alivehawk1701
Summary: Written years ago, since updated/upgraded, for a LJ prompt; Wilson's brother finds out that he is gay and reacts badly. Established H/W are invited to a gathering at Wilson's affluent brother's lake house where Wilson is hoping to reconnect with his brother whom he hasn't seen in years, and from the start, House has a bad feeling . . .
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 98





	1. A Phone Call

I swallow my tooth.

Hot blood fills my mouth in waves, spilling down my throat, choking me. I can't spit it out. Sharp pain erupts suddenly in my side. There's a sickening crunch and I know one of my ribs just snapped.

It punctured one of my lungs. Doesn't matter if I'm choking on blood, my lung just collapsed.

It's funny. All I can think about is their shoes. White shoes. They're going to get blood all over their white shoes. Blood and grass stains.

Wait.

No.

There's more to this.

Golf. There's golf.

I'm not any good at golf. I told them that. But they're the kind of people that are always smiling and never listening. Guilt. Wow, they were great at guilt. The kind of passive aggression that makes your stomach sink. My brother in particular.

I agreed to play.

And that's when . . . wait, not then . . .

That wasn't where this started.

There was sea-weed. No, not sea-weed, it wasn't the ocean. I dragged some from my hair, throwing it across the surface of the green water, slime lingering on my fingers.

No, no that's not the beginning—

I know.

It started with a phone call.

"Jim?" my brother's voice.

"Jerry?" I said into the receiver, "No way—hi—it's been a long time—how've you been?"

Besides a few random phone calls here and there I hadn't seen my brother in six years. So this is surprising.

"Great, I've been great—hey, sorry for being a terrible younger brother and not calling for so long—we always said we'd keep in touch."

"Brothers say a lot of things," I said, as good-natured as possible.

"There's a reason I called though, Jim."

My heart rate picked up, "What? Is it Mom? Is everything okay—"

"No, it's nothing like that," he laughed, "Well—might as well just say it—I got married!"

I blinked, "You— _ got _ married," I responded, unable to stop the emphasis on the word got.

"I know," Jeremy replied, dragging out the last syllable, "To be honest it all happened so fast and you're always so busy that I thought, well, just do it and tell him afterwards."

"Wow," I said, mouth open but no words coming out, clearing my throat, "Congratulations. Did Mom come or—"

"You didn't think I'd not invite my own mother to my wedding, did you?" he scolded, "I mean, this is only my first time around, Jim—it's old news for you."

I forced a laugh.

He continued, "Anyway—I thought I'd make it up to the people I neglected and have some people over to my place in the Poconos."

"The Poconos?" I parroted.

"Yeah."

"You . . . have a place—"

"Come on Jim, I've had it for years."

"Oh right," I corrected myself quickly, "Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"So, you interested in coming?" he asked brightly, "It's gonna be great, little bit of sun, woods, water, we're right near a golf course too."

"Of course," I answered, sitting forward in my chair, searching for my planner amongst all the clutter on my desk, "When is it?"

"In about two weeks,"

"Yeah, I think so," I said, flipping pages of my planner, tucking the phone under my chin, "The weekend of the seventh and the eighth?"

"Yep," he confirmed, "Wow, I'm looking forward to seeing you, Jim."

"Definitely."

"You're welcome to bring a guest too, everyone else is—seeing anyone lately?"

"Um, I—"

"You're not . . . married are you?" he asked unsurely.

"No," I answered.

He let out a breath, "I thought so, but I could've been wrong," he chuckled, "But you are with someone?"

"I am."

"Who is she? Serious?"

"Well, it's—"

"Too soon to tell?"

"No, actually, um—"

"Listen, just throw her in a duffle bag and get up here—I'll give you a call back later, or you call me, and I'll fill you in on the details, I gotta run Jim—you know, to be honest I didn't know where to call so I just called the hospital—good to hear your voice though, Jim."

"Same," I said.

"Seriously, call me—I'm running late, so I'll just talk to you later."

"Sure, no problem."

"Alright then, bye Jim."

"Bye, Jerry."

And that was that. He hung up and the phone was still at my ear as the dial tone started to sound.

I don't know how long it was, not that long, but I'd lowered the phone back to the cradle when House walked in.

He closed the door behind him and I lifted my hand from the receiver, remembering to close my mouth.

"Interesting phone call?" he asked, coming to lean against the wall behind my desk.

"You could call it that."

I felt his eyes on me but didn't turn around. He probably saw the planner out.

"No," he said lowly, "I think I'd call it unnerving—you're all pale and twitchy."

"It . . . was my brother."

"Which one?"

"The live one," I retorted, irritated, then calmed myself, taking a breath, "He got married and invited me to his place in the Poconos to celebrate."

"Nice."

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And he said I could bring a date."

"Huh . . ." House said and I heard him suck on his teeth, pausing, bouncing his cane once, then twice on the carpet before saying, "Are we flying or driving?"

"To the Poconos?"

"Well, walking's out—bus? Train? How far is it?"

"Wait—you want to go?" I asked, confused.

"Sure," he answered easily. Too easily?

I paused, licking my lips, my brow furrowing. I instantly regretted my unfortunate habit of expressing emotion, knowing there was no point in trying to hide it anyway, not from House. 

"Driving," I answered, putting my reservations about the whole invitation on the back burner for now. I stood up, "It's not that far." I took a long breath, filling my lungs, putting my hands on my hips. Power pose, Wilson, I told myself, almost believing it.

House didn't say anything. Not then, anyway. He un-leaned himself, pressing his lips together with a short nod.

I wandered out to the nurse's station to retrieve a chart or two, curious when my heart rate would return to normal, uncomfortable with the dampness on my brow.

Five minutes ago I'd been worried what to eat for lunch. Five minutes ago I was completely comfortable with never seeing my brother again. What would he think of me? Why did it matter to me? Five minutes ago I wasn't terrified.

"No, no clinic, not your turn," I heard behind me.

Cuddy.

"No I know," I said, turning, "I was just uh, uh—" I thought I was holding something in my hand, when I saw I wasn't I closed my hand, "Doing nothing, apparently,"

Her eyes narrowed, "You look green, what's going on?"

"Nothing! Good, all good."

Cuddy had one hand on her hip and seemed unimpressed, "What did he do?"

"What did who do?"

"You know who."

"I don't know who you're talking about," I moved away, back to my office.

She pursued, "Crippled. Grouchy. Your roommate?"

Roommate. Cuddy had never asked how or why after all this time I was still living at House's apartment. Didn't ask for reasons I had only speculated. Self-protection, most likely.

"Oh him," I said as I unlocked my door, hoping she would let me close the door and panic in peace.

"Wilson, stop, what's the matter?"

"Cuddy, I appreciate it, I do, really, thank you, but it's personal."

She stopped in the doorway of my office thus making it difficult to close. As if I wasn't already anxious enough. Can't. Can't do this right now.

Of course it would be Cuddy. God. Of course she would be here to see this. I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a shaking breath. The reality of everything, my whole life, the last six months, my job, my personal life, all of it, hit me with crushing accuracy. In what seemed like a very short amount of time my life had changed drastically, from triple divorced, living in a hotel, loser to living with a man that, after years of both of us dancing around our ambiguous sexuality, had finally accepted our relationship as more than just friends, definitely more than a roommates, not to mention my family, whom I'd tried to keep out of my life suddenly pulling me helplessly back in. All of it. I turned away from Cuddy, trying to breathe.

"Hey," she said, closing the door, "I'm sorry," she sighed, "I didn't mean to push you."

"My brother got married," I managed, voice almost cracking, not looking at her as I cleared my throat, needing to sit down, heart racing, sweat breaking out all over my body, "And . . . he asked me to come . . . to see him."

"Ok," confusion, "And?"

"And so I'm going to,  _ we  _ are going to go," I turned to face her, "And I'm freaking out."

"We?"

"House and I," it came out of my mouth, unbidden, my hand returned to my mouth once I'd said it.

"Why bring him, I don't get it—"

"Oh god, I can't do this."

"Wilson."

"We're together."

"Living together, I know," she scoffed, "However that works."

"No, we're together as a—" I took a deep gasping breath, "A couple."

She laughed, "Bullshit," when I said nothing her smile faded and disappeared in a crushing second, "Oh, god," she almost backed away with a startled gasp.

"Just—" my eyes squeezed shut.

"Oh my god!"

"Don't—"

"You can't!"

My eyes opened, "I am."

She was shaking her head, "You and House."

"Yes."

"No."

I put my hands up defensively, "Don't tell him I told you, we're just, keeping it . . . low key for now."

"When?"

"When what?"

"When did this happen?"

"We were living together. I care about him. I care about him a lot. I know, I know it's not, not normal."

"He's so, so—"

"He's not, really, he's—" I stopped, had I really just, actually come out to my boss, "He's not,"

"He's going to break your heart,"

"Cuddy, we're not just sleeping together we're actually—"

"Wilson, no. He will use you. And then break you," she was almost shaking, "You can't do this. Do you hear me?"

"You don't understand."

"I understand plenty. He is not capable of human connection. He is using you, Wilson. I thought you were smarter than this. God! House?!"

"You are so far from the truth," I told her. The anger flared through me, "Just because he was never interested in you!"

"Excuse me?" she took a step back, her face shattering, "How dare you."

"Cuddy, I'm sorry,"

"Fuck you, Wilson. Fuck you, and fuck House."

She left.

That went well.


	2. Invite Accepted

It was later that night. I was making dinner. The chicken was dry. Too much oregano. Not that this meant the universe was imploding, by any means, but it made everything a little less bearable.

House had come up behind me while I was at the stove and leaned against me, putting an arm around me and kissing behind my ear, his breath quiet, steady, and warm on my neck. He growled low and bit at an ear lobe before reaching around to grab a cherry tomato and popping it in his mouth.

"More red pepper flakes this time," he said, using the counter to steady himself as he headed to the living room.

"Cuddy knows," I said, not looking up from the cutting board.

He’d stopped walking, "How to make a perfect hardboiled egg?"

"No," I put down the knife, "About us. She knows,"

His eyes narrowed, "How would she know?"

"She ambushed me! I was . . . already raw from talking to my brother and it just . . . came out."

"You mean  _ you _ just came out. And dragged me with you?"

"I'm sorry, this wasn't the plan."

"Not that we had a plan."

"True," I paused, frowned, "Why are you not yelling right now?"

"Why would I yell? You did the hardest part for me," he limped back to me, "It's done."

"Well yeh," I sighed, "I didn't really see it happening this way though," he stopped close enough to me to put a hand on my hip to steady himself, "She did not respond well. God what if she tells the board."

My nostrils flared as he leaned closer; filled with the rich earthy smell of him, "We could lose our jobs," my eyes closed as he pressed his lips to mine. He pulled back and smoothed his thumb over the stubble on my cheek, "I don't care what other people think," he moved his arm around to my back and pulled me closer, kissing me again, rubbing the roughness of his beard against me like an animal as he bit at my neck, sending shivers down my spine, "Finish dinner. Or I will eat you."

He retreated to the living room. As I finished slicing radishes I smiled to myself.

I couldn't help but think of what Cuddy had said. She'd been upset, I understand. But underneath the anger and the shock, I knew she was just trying to protect me. House and I were complicated, even before our relationship had become more intimate. Had I always known this would happen? That after years of friendship my feelings for him would become deeper and more significant? Or that he would feel the same way? Was there always a chance we’d be more than friends? Part of me said yes, that I always knew, somehow that, despite all the fights and the tension, maybe even because of it, that there was no else for me, or him.

Since we had gotten closer, since we'd actually risked the possibility, I knew, I knew in the way that made my heart skip when I thought about him, that I had, and always will, love this man. Being able to touch him, freely, whenever I wanted, being able to be with him in quiet, intimate moments and see him for his flaws and his beauty and everything that made him him, was singularly and utterly amazing.

Not that anyone would know it, considering his outward demeanour which was all brambles and snide remarks, but he is affectionate and he is loving. It's me, and maybe Stacy, that had ever seen that part of him. The part that was sweet, vulnerable, and so desperately in need of closeness.

It didn't come easily to him, or to me for that matter, to trust anyone. Which made it all the more special to me. I felt so fiercely protective of that part of him. I would do anything to keep that part safe. And to keep it mine. Maybe that's selfish. I didn't care.

But I don't know how my brother will react. I don't know how to anticipate what will happen or how to keep House safe. I found myself wishing that House had just said he wouldn't go. It's what you'd expect him to do.

I was getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth with a strange cinnamon flavoured toothpaste that House had wanted to try. He's said something about being interested in how the kisses would taste.

I spat and rinsed off my toothbrush, wiping my mouth. I could tell House to stay home, go to the Poconos, make something up about a busy, attractive, female girlfriend who was so sorry not to make it, and get on with my life. It's what I expected of myself. The façade taking precedence over my reality.

Another lie? Every lie added up, again and again, lies hurt, they hurt you—they turn everything rotten inside you. I didn't want that. And after what happened today, accidentally or not telling Cuddy I'm gay, or at least bisexual, I'm tired of lying. House doesn't care what people think. Even before we were sleeping together he said people just assumed we were. Just took us a while to realize it.

House and I were lying in bed, neither of us sleeping. Sweat dried over our skin as House's hand lazily stroked the soft skin over my ribs, my head resting on his chest, one of my legs tucked between his. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep but I couldn't. I told myself to relax, reminding myself that six o'clock in the morning was going to seem pretty damn early but my eyes kept opening.

House was breathing slow, even breaths, rib-cage rising and lowering softly under me.

Eventually I heard House above me, asking in a low, quiet voice, "He doesn't know?"

I considered pretending I was already sleep but eventually said, "I haven't seen him for six years.

He took a deep breath, I heard him swallow, "How do you think he'll handle it?"

Truthfully I didn't know how Jeremy would respond. I really didn't. I didn't know who he was. I didn't know anything about him.  _ He's your brother, _ I assured myself like it meant something.

"I don't know," I answered honestly.

I'm tired of hiding, I thought, closing my eyes for the hundredth time.

  
  


The next day, in my office, I looked up Jeremy's number on the caller ID and wrote it down on a slip of paper. It was early in the morning. I was trying to get some work done before my first appointment. Which left an annoyingly convenient time to catch up on phone calls.

Like to my brother.

Truth is, Jeremy took the youngest-child-card and flipped it upside down, changed the suit, and announced he was playing Blackjack, not Poker—we wasn't spoiled, he was never the baby of the family—my parents just weren't the same after David left. That meant less attention for him, to which apparently his only course of action was to be the best at everything, and he was. He was a lawyer. A good one. Not only that, he has a place in Florida, where he spends most of his time, the place in the Poconos, and a condo in LA. Beyond that, I don't know much about him. He'd never even sent me Hanukkah cards. So now here I was, his older brother, waltzing back into his life, our awkward childhood hanging over us, both rivals in the same game: to be better than David.

I threw the pen down and raised a hand to my mouth, rubbing the smooth surface of my thumbnail against my lower lip, staring at the number. Twisting the small post-it between my fingers restlessly I sighed and decided to just do it, scooping up the phone and dialled quickly.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Hi, Jeremy, it's James."

"Wondering when you'd get back to me—so can you get away or not?"

"Yeah," I nodded, "You . . . said I could bring someone?"

"That's the idea—friends, their wives, that kind of thing."

I closed my eyes, taking a breath, "I've been living with someone actually, um, you met him— Greg House."

Silence. I inhaled, holding it in my chest. Still nothing.

"You're kidding," he finally said.

"No," I answered.

He laughed shortly, "You're a homo?"

"I'm—yeah," I said, my lungs screaming for air.

"Since when?"

I resisted saying "since birth" instead covering my eyes with my hand and saying, "After my last divorce I sort of got a clue."

"Oh my god," he said, breathless, quiet on the other line, then, "Okay—well, bring him along."

He remained on the line long enough to give me an address and telephone number and how long we would expect to be gone.

"We'll be there."

"Bye, Jim."

I met House in the cafeteria for lunch. We sat opposite each other. He was sipping on a beverage and periodically taking chips from my plate as I enjoyed what I was relatively sure was a ham sandwich. Or was it bologna? I studied the pale pink meet, closing one eye as I held it in front of me, "As a doctor, I should know not to eat mysterious meat."

House grabbed the sandwich out of my hand, sniffed it, then tore into it with a flash of teeth and his bright blue eyes, "Tastes like liver."

"It's not liver. It's not organ meat. It's some kind of animal," I retrieved it from him and watched as he licked a crumb from his lip.

"Stop that,"

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"How am I looking at you?" he asked in a low voice, eyes intense and smouldering.

"We are in public. I am eating lunch," I said, nonetheless tracking the rising pulse in my groin and my heart steadily pounding against my sternum.

His smile widened, as he sucked at some mayonnaise on his thumb, letting his tongue slip from between his lips before he said, "You know what I'd like for lunch?"

"You're enjoying this too much," I said, though I couldn't help but think about what he was capable of with that tongue.

"And you're not?"

I hid my smile behind my sandwich, keenly aware of the crowded tables and general bustle that was the noon hour, "You know I am."

House's gazed shifted suddenly over my shoulder, "Uh-oh, 11'oclock, Cuddy,"

"Oh Jesus," I gasped, shifting my legs under the table, screamingly aware of my slight erection, "I—."

House glared over my shoulder, "I'll teach her to ruin my fun."

Cuddy unluckily came to stand in line near to our table. I quickly looked at House who was eyeing her with a cool steely gaze. He leaned back, putting one arm over his chair.

"Hey Wilson," House said loudly, looking back to me, "Do you remember how we were naked last night?"

I felt my face flush red instantly. Cuddy turned around slowly, arms crossing in way that suggested she was resisting violence.

"Cuddy!" House exclaimed, "Oh hi!" then said, "We touch each other's penises."

"Inappropriate, House,"

"I think you mean a beautiful expression of untethered love."

"I mean inappropriate for the work place, regardless of your orientation."

"Inappropriate like the length of your skirt? Or the see-through-ness of that blouse?" he narrowed his eyes, "Red today? That's bold."

"You're not special here, House, by policy employees are restricted from discussing topics of an explicit nature and according to policy must report all relationships to the human resources department and their direct supervisor."

"Alright, Lisa Cuddy, this is my boyfriend James Wilson," House extended his hand to hold mine, "Say hello to the nice lady, sweet-cheeks,"

I cleared my throat, "Hello, Cuddy,"

"This what you want, Wilson?"

Cuddy was glaring at me but my eyes were only on House. I smiled, "You called me your boyfriend?"

"Well, until I put a ring on it," he gave an exaggerated wink to a man standing in line, who might have been from radiology, who had quite clearly been ease dropping.

Cuddy sighed, "Talk to HR,"

A ring? He was joking. I shook my head to regain focus, "We'll talk to them. Cuddy please, beyond House's inability to not mention penises over lunch, we aren't doing anything wrong," her brow relaxed and the man from radiology lost interest and turned back into line, "I know it's . . . a surprise, I know we were keeping it a secret, but I'm not, we're not, trying to hurt you, or anyone."

She considered this for a moment, "Fine," she said, an eyebrow raised, walking away with her tray.

House watched her go.

I sighed and ate a chip, "See what I mean?"

"Just jealous," House said.

"She told me I was being . . . careless," I said and House frowned, "Something about you not being capable of real human connection?"

House's eyes shifted downward. If I didn't know him like I did I would have missed it. Hurt. He paused in thought, then levelled his gaze, "You don't believe that,"

I shook my head, "No," he had to know that.

"I'm not much for middle ground, Wilson," he said carefully, "If I didn't want to be with you, I wouldn't be."

"I know," I said.


	3. Everyone

Five minutes after turning onto the driveway and still not seeing any sign of the house, House groaned in aggravation, his face turned to watch the scenery pass outside the window, blue eyes wide, pupils small.

We'd gotten up early to finish up some last minute packing in the dawn hours so we could make the two hour drive and arrive on time. I'd stood by the coffee maker, rubbing grime from my eyes, shaking loose the cobwebs from a disturbing dream I'd had the night before but couldn't remember.

House had come up next to me and leaned tiredly into me, grumbling low in his chest about having to get up so early, half asleep himself. The coffee maker had burbled away as I'd closed my eyes, Greg resting against my shoulder, letting him nuzzle my neck with his rough cheek.

As soon as he'd detached himself everything came flooding back, the nervousness, the fear—the cold floor under my feet, the chilly air in the apartment, the grogginess of fitful sleeping, all of it made me feel about as physically miserable as I was mentally.

As we continued to drive down the narrow road I was forced to wonder, is this all his property?

"What kind of lawyer is your brother?" House asked.

"I'm not sure."

"What school did he go to?"

"California somewhere?"

"He has a place in the Poconos, he has several places in different places—which either means he's smart with his money, which is doubtful, or he has so much he doesn't have to be smart."

"Does classism work both ways? Not all rich people are jerks."

"Why did they have me kicked out of their yachting club, then?"

"I'm sure they had their reasons."

"Hypocrites."

"Most people are, regardless of income."

"They'll spend five dollars at Jamba Juice for a fancy juice drink with ginseng and vitamin D then go and smoke a pack of cigarettes—they spend all their time on treadmills to fit into some all-important ideal appearance, running in place for hours just because they can or just because they're too scared to be anything else than standard."

"Yeah, well, maybe my brother's not like that."

House paused for the first time in a while, "The fact that he's your brother is the only reason there's a chance he's not."

I felt appeased enough at that, "I called my mom and apparently he's converted—he's a Christian now."

"He did that before or after getting married?"

"For the wedding—she's religious, I guess—not that Jerry was every religious himself."

"That you know of."

"That I know of."

"People do strange things for love," he said, catching my eye dreamily.

"Something that became clearer after I'd signed my soul over to you on a piece of notebook paper."

"I didn't ask you to sign in blood."

"Ball-point pen didn't seem right—it was my soul after all."

"And it's all mine."

"The disturbing thing?"

"What?"

"We appear to have the same marital habits—he met and married her in four months."

"Love is blind."

"And the clichés keep coming."

"Well, one could argue that you never really married any of your wives—you were just waiting for me."

"That's . . . egotistical."

"But true."

"I'm sure they'll all be wondering just how it happened; there I was, actually thinking I knew what love was, then you came along, I was so wrong,"

"Not to mention what good sex was."

"That's right, let's shock the nice Christian people with the details of gay sex."

"Figure A and Figure B are one of the last assumed standards."

"House, I want you to think very hard about something," he met my eyes briefly before I turned them back to the road, "We don't know them, we're guests, alright? We should try to . . . blend as much as possible."

"Eww."

"Eww? I'm serious, House."

He stopped, taking a breath, "I know," he ran a hand over his rough cheek, then down to his neck, "I promise to be good—but I'm not eating any caviar. And I'm not playing cricket."

"Cricket? We're in Pennsylvania, not Dorset."

"Might as well be the same," he said grumpily, eyes narrowed, "They probably hang around all day eating canapés and beating their servants in-between rounds of polo."

"This is going to be impossible," I groaned.

"And I'm not going this entire week without any sex."

"Small demands."

"There’s nothing small about my demands,” he said suggestively, making me laugh, “Will we get the same room—we have to be married first, right?"

"I don't know," I admitted. They probably had a lot of guest rooms, "This is the second time in so many days that you've mentioned marriage."

"And?"

"It's interesting."

"I've also mentioned how much I love string cheese several times over the last few days,"

"Yes, strange that I hadn't noticed that,"

"It’s just so convenient."

"Maybe it's been on your mind."

"Cheese?"

"Marriage."

I glanced over at him, his hand gently massaging his leg, "It's not outside the realm of possibility," he paused in thought, "If they have us in two separate twin beds it may be a more pressing issue."

"We'll have to find out—and you don't have to eat caviar just because it's there."

"I don't have to suck on your toes but I do anyway—but that makes us both happy."

"Fine—same with your earlobes."

"And slapping your ass."

"And your left hip-bone."

"What are Christian's beliefs on bondage?"

"You didn't read that part in the Bible?"

"Missed it."

"Shame."

"Exactly," he smiled, then looked out the window, "I can't go this whole time without touching you."

"No one said you couldn't touch me, I'm just saying maybe we shouldn't . . . get carried away."

"What if I promised to be quiet?"

"You never are," I accused, but couldn't miss the misery on his face, "I . . . guess we could be discreet, but seriously, we have to make a good impression—this is my brother—if you ever do anything for me, just do this, it's important."

"You think I'm going to ruin this?"

"Are you?"

"No," he said pointedly, a little annoyed, "I'm not your roommate, I'm in love with you, I'm not going to be afraid to hold your hand in front of these people," he ran a quick hand over his rough jaw in an impatient gesture, taking a breath then letting it out in an exaggerated sigh, "We're taking a vacation together," he said slowly, "The first real vacation we've ever taken together, we're going to see your relatives, we packed the same bag—at this very moment your socks are lying next to my socks—this means something."

I smiled, despite my better judgement I felt reduced to an absolute puddle of a person. He rarely used that word. Everything was suddenly so real and wonderful and terrifying. Having him in my life, in my heart, felt like I could face anything. We drove in silence, mostly because I knew my voice would shake, going up and down a few hills, wondering if there was any danger of deer on the road.

"We could go swimming," I suggested, glancing over at him. He had his head leaning back against the head-rest, tilted to the side so he could see the sky.

"I don't like seaweed."

"There's no seaweed in fresh water."

"Well, I don't like aquatic plants," he corrected, then, his eyes catching something out the window, "Mansion," he announced.

"It's not a—" I started, leaning down over the steering wheel to see, "—oh my god."

It was a mansion.

Definitely bigger than I thought. Nicer than I thought. But if you were going to get a house in Long Island . . . and by house I don't mean "four walled structure with a roof and a chimney". This was unbelievable. Oddly enough though, the whole place had a tucked-away feeling like the architect was ordered to design it by coupling the words "rustic" and "extravagant". It was a strange combination. Both our jaws dropped at the sight of it.

There was a small area that seemed almost like a parking lot so I guided the Volvo over the tastefully gravelled road and parked next to a green Jaguar. Looking from the silver glint of the pouncing cat to the marble columns made a lump the size of a tennis ball stick in my throat.

I tried swallowing it but it didn't work. Oh god, I thought on a tangent, I hope we don't play tennis.

I cut the engine and swiped my tongue along the inside of my cheek, tasting blood from where I'd chewed on the inside of my cheek.

We sat for a moment.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," House said, making me turn to look at him. He met my eyes. A much as Greg House could look desperate, he looked desperate. What could I do? We had to. We were here.

But maybe he's right, maybe we should just turn around and run away—don't be ridiculous, I told myself, this is a vacation, just have a good time.

"We'll be fine," I reassured instead. When he didn't look convinced I leaned over to him, drawing his lips to mine with a hand on his cheek. Our eyes closed and I held him to me, gently breathing until I felt his tension ease, then pulled back, "Trust me."

I know he didn't do well in social situations. If he was the centre of attention that was fine but in a group setting, asked to engage in casual conversation, he was far less in his element. It was a silent agreement for me to do most of the talking. If I could. Maybe I'm a little rusty too.

We approached the large oaken doors of the house and, not sure what else to do, rang the bell. Around us the woods were alive with birds, the sound of the wind, and somewhere in the distance was the sound of a motor, most likely a boat of some kind. A woman answered the door. She was attractive, with sort of wavy, blonde hair and tan skin, no doubt from a good amount of leisure time spent in the sun. She was wearing a turquoise necklace, a white blouse, shorts, and white sandals. She definitely fit with the picture.

"Hi!" I greeted, "I'm James, Jerry's brother."

"James hi!" she said and went in for an unexpected hug. The rattle of ice informed me that she had a drink in her hand and proximity brought to me the scent of gin, "So nice to meet you, I'm Lucy, his wife," she smiled, her teeth were a brilliant white, "They are all down at the dock, they said to send you down when you got here."

"Great! This is Greg House, my boyfriend," I said, feeling my heart clench and swell at the word.

"Hi there," she said in a high pitched voice like she was greeting a dog. She brought the glass to her lips and smiled again.

"Well, we'll drop our bags off," I glanced up the very large staircase, "Upstairs?" she nodded, "And head down there."

It was a brief meeting and it seemed odd without Jerry there. Why wouldn't he meet us up at the house too? I wanted to see my brother. And there'd be time to walk with Lucy later.

Still, I told her I was happy to meet her, congratulated her on the marriage, and thanked her for letting us come stay. She was gracious, blushing slightly, but otherwise seeming pretty adept at entertaining. Good quality, I suppose. I felt a little awkward leaving her to the house but she explained she'd be down in just a few minutes. We dragged our bags to our room, the same room, and left the house again.

From the house there was a somewhat narrow and definitely steep walkway that turned into somewhat steep if not completely dangerous set of stone stairs. In another time, in another place, the moss growing delicately around the grey stone, the slow creeping of nature over civility, might have been charming but ascetics aside—there was no railing. The view was undeniably great, it was—the water stretched out as far as the eye could see with the kind of peaceful serenity that one experiences with either the ocean or some sort of large rock formation—but there wasn't a railing. How was House going to do this?

Before we started down I exchanged a significant look with him. To say he looked pleased would have been almost right, but terrified would have been closer to the mark. I waited for him to catch up with me at the first step, positioning myself to his left, my attention divided between him, the stairs, and the dock I could see below through the overhanging branches. I counted five people. My chest twisted at House's first painful step down, repressing a sudden surge of anger while forcing myself to keep from saying anything. House used my arm to steady himself as I mentally counted off each step. Eleven to go, ten to go, nine . . .

House's face was pale and he was breathing heavily by the time we got to the bottom. I squeezed his arm and he scowled an I'm-okay-leave-me-alone-now-scowl. By that time I'd recognized my brother. He shot to his feet from the chair he'd been sitting in, holding his arms out in a welcoming gesture.

Six years seemed to have made a difference of six percent on all his proportions. I had remained slight over the years, not bulky as far as muscles goes anyway, but Jeremy looked fit in every sense of the word. He looked like he ate protein shakes for breakfast lunch and dinner. Which is fine, I guess. I baulked briefly at the pineapples all over his short-sleeved shirt but decided against commenting. My gimp boyfriend on my arm was gay enough at the moment.

House and I continued on our way down to the dock and I met Jerry halfway.

"Jim!" he exclaimed, rapping me on the back in a way that that felt like he could break one of my ribs. The dock swayed slightly under my feet, like the foreign smell of fish and algae wasn't enough to make me feel totally out of place. I smelled cigar smoke and saw that one of the guys on the dock had one clamped between his teeth.

"Did you meet her?" he asked, squaring his chest and clasping his hands together in front of himself.

"We did—she's amazing, Jerry, I'm really happy for you.

He raised both his eyebrows in agreement, 'I know," his eyes shifted to House, "Greg—Greg House," he said.

"Jerry," House responded, leaning heavily on his cane, a slight wind blowing at the curls of sweat-damp hair on his forehead, "Good to see you again."

"Better circumstances than last time anyway," Jerry said, expression then changing from thoughtfulness to enthusiasm as he said, "Celebrating marriage to a beautiful woman rather than Dad having a heart attack."

House and Jerry had met ten years ago when I'd been finishing up school and my dad's heart gave out for the first time. House had driven me home after a panicked call from my mom in the middle of the night. Of course, I hadn't had a car and House had been the only person I could think to call. It had been frantic and breathless, the whole way home, all of it somehow screeching to a halt in the house where I grew up, all of us sitting around the kitchen table while my mom made tuna sandwiches and tried not to cry. I remembered that night as the night we'd hugged, really hugged, for the first time. Back at home, sitting in his car, I'd paused, awkwardly trying to thank him, still emotional and shaken, and he'd reached over and hugged me. I remember the way he had smelled, the way it felt very natural and how I felt better, just being near him. And when I'd pulled back, the hug lasting longer than either of had expected, his arms still around me, his eyes were the bluest I'd ever seen.

Jerry smiled easily in a way that reminded me of when we were kids and he'd set up firecrackers to blow up an army base I'd assiduously arranged, and turned to the others, "Jim, this is John and his wife Lizzy," the man with the cigar raised a hand in a curt wave and the woman smiled while chewing on a piece of fruit in her glass, carefully perm-ed hair going to fritz from the humidity, "And this is Peter and his wife Samantha," I nodded at them both, not sure whether to step forward and shake their hands or not, since they weren't standing, so just smiled and waved a little. House's arm was warm against mine. I could feel him waver, the rocking of the dock making him even more unsteady than usual.

"John and Peter are from work," Jerry continued, "John works above me—" John crossed his arms over his chest with pride and Lizzy swatted his bicep, "And Peter is just below, but he is younger—clip on ties are no longer an option," they laughed, "Everyone—this is my big brother Jim, come to join us for a much needed vacation—he works in Jersey, Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital—he's an oncologist."

Lizzy gasped, "Oh my, what a noble profession."

I smiled good-naturedly, "I don't know about noble—chivalry and chemo don't really mix," it was difficult explaining what I do to people, people were usually both intensely curious and intensively terrified at the same time. Discussing cancer was usually a guaranteed conversation stopper. I felt the tightness suddenly return to my throat and slipped my hand down Greg's arm, discreetly clasping his hand in mine and felt him squeeze back, "This is my," I stumbled on my words, feeling like a complete idiot and coward, "This is Greg—he's at Princeton too, but a different department."

"Which department?" Lizzy asked, taking another drink.

"Diagnostics," Greg answered, giving me a sideways look.

"That's nice," Lizzy said with a wide smile, "Wow . . . two doctors."

Her husband, John, huffed a short laugh, "They're a whole family of over achievers. All I've got is a younger brother who wastes time designing cereal boxes—you can't predict where your genes will get you, that's for sure."

"Oh John," Lizzy scolded, "Patrick's happy doing what he loves."

"Wasn't he working for Cherrios?" Samantha wondered, eyes not visible behind a pair of overly-large sunglasses.

"No, it was Quaker Oats," Peter supplied.

Discomfort was wafting off of House. I could feel him trembling. Not only from the climb down the stairs but from the unsteady dock as well.

"Has everyone been here long?" I asked.

Jerry shook his head, "Not really—these waste-alls are here all the time."

''ppreciate it, Jer," John said past his cigar.

"Speaking of cereal, or rather, food—are you hungry, Jim? Lucy's making some sandwiches I think."

"Yeah," I answered, just wanting House to be able to sit down, "We haven't had anything since breakfast."

"We'll go on up then," Jerry said.

I kept House's hand in mine as the rest of the small party got up and walked off the dock, the whole thing swaying back and forth with the movement, water lapping noisily around the posts, both of us making it to solid ground and hanging back to see Jerry.

"So," Jerry said, kicking at the sand at the shore with a sandaled foot, everyone else heading up the stairs, "What do you think of the place?"

I took a breath, "Jerry, the air is clean, the water is gorgeous, and the house—I don't even know where to start, besides, how do you keep it up? We can barely keep a small apartment clean."

"Well I don't," he answered, keeping pace next to House and I, "I hire some people to stay and clean when I'm not here—it's no big deal really."

"Regardless, it's absolutely amazing—I'm speechless."

"Yep," he agreed, "The only thing missing was a wife to go with it."

"Speaking of which," I said, "How . . ."

"Fast I know—but the right move. You know me, Jim—why wait? We met, we hit it off, she's perfect."

"Wow."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see John and Peter talking to each other, leaning in with arms crossed near the boat house. I turned to look and when I did they were starting at me, and at House.

"Yeah. Just like a picture," my brother said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I'm not from your great nation (if it is yours, the US I mean), but have "heard' of the Poconos and did a quick Google Map, it's conceivable that is where Wilson's brother's cabin could be . . . but if not, let that be the suspending your disbelief part of the story. Cheers ;)


	4. In the Water

Sandwiches. Fancy sandwiches. I thought sandwiches were just slices of bread with things in-between them but I was wrong. There was some sort of green mayonnaise, dill maybe, and sprouts, and salmon. And the tablecloth was white; white enough that I was sure I was going to spill something on it.

It was strange. I wasn't even sure when I'd last sat down at an actual table, with other people, besides in the cafeteria, for a meal. Particularly lunch.

The others were mostly talking amongst themselves, making me feel like some kind of outsider to some kind of strange tea-party right out of Lewis Carol. It's like we'd sailed onto an actual island, in the middle of the ocean, that hadn't ever been visited before. But all the usual things were there. All the things you'd expect. Palm trees, coconuts, sand—that, or it seemed like we'd walked into a postcard.

But it was good too. Seeing Jerry again brought back a lot of memories. Some good, some bad, but still. Whenever you see a sibling you haven't seen in a long time it's like seeing a part of yourself that you'd lost or stopped thinking about. I'd missed him. I'd missed having a brother.

I was busy trying to keep up with all they were talking about, not knowing who or what they were really talking about, popping a carrot in my mouth when they stopped talking and Lizzy turned her attention to me. Samantha was watching me too, her sunglasses pushed up to the top of her head.

"Well, we all kind of know each other already—you're the big news," Lizzy said, smiling, "Tell us about yourselves. Jerry's a great guy but by no means a family man. I didn't even know he had a brother—let alone a doctor," she glared at Jerry briefly. He feigned innocence. I thought about David.

"We went to different schools, different sides of the continent—Jerry wanted palm trees and I wanted wide open spaces," I explained, "I ended up in Quebec and he ended up in California."

"You always wanted to be a doctor?" she asked.

"Well . . . " I thought, nervous, feeling on-the-spot, then said, "No, I guess not—I started out in psychology, social work—ended up in med school somewhere along the line."

"What about you, Greg?" she asked him, "Did you always want to be a doctor?"

House swallowed a bit of sandwich and managed to look little better than an angsty teenager asked to sit and have pleasant conversation at the supper table, "It was a small list," he answered, "Though my dad would have rather I'd joined the service—which was never on the list, by the way."

"What branch?" John asked.

"Marines."

"Not the Navy?"

House frowned, eyes shifting to mine as the sandwich turned to cardboard in my mouth.

"John," Lizzy sighed.

"Come on," Peter said and John and him laughed.

House's eyes shifted to both of them, sandwich frozen in his hand.

I interrupted, "House's father is retired now but he made it to Colonel."

"You must be proud of him," John said, eyes still on House.

"Every day," House replied, taking a drink.

"And how did you two meet?" Lucy asked, having come back from the fridge to grab a bowl of strawberries. She sat and took a sip of her iced tea like she hadn't heard anything that had just been said.

"Lucy we don't have to—," Jerry said warningly, edging the pad of his thumb around of the rim of his glass.

"I'm just curious, Jeremy, he's your brother after all."

They shared a look. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to answer.

"Medical conference," House spoke up, "Wilson was the youngest oncologist there and I was the one no one wanted to sit with."

"It was the only table open," I elaborated dryly.

"And he looked like he might put out easily," House said.

I edged my eyes towards the others, trying to ignore the looks on their faces as he took an almost polite large bite of his sandwich, "There was real crystal on the tables, probably worth more than all my student loans combined at the time, which I tried to point out to him before the champagne tower came crashing down."

"Nobody got hurt."

"The waiter stepped on a piece of glass!"

"He made a big deal out of nothing."

I looked at Lucy. She looked interested, even a little amused. Maybe we were the only gay people she knew. I instantly felt like an animal in a zoo. I sighed inwardly and continued with my story, my cheeks feeling hot, "I'd gone there to learn—medical conferences are a respectable and necessary function, but ended up missing most of the lecture."

"It's good that you did—the speaker was later convicted on child pornography charges."

Lizzy gasped.

"No he wasn't." I reassured her.

"That or he's living in Barbados now," House shrugged, "Either way it wasn't worth the entrance fee."

"It was free."

"They should have used plastic cups then."

"Luckily," I said pointedly, "No one knew who I was," I sighed, "Breaking thirteen crystal glasses and fleeing the scene of a crime doesn't look good for first impressions," I glared at House, "I had no intention of ever seeing him again, but . . . he gave me his number."

"I gave you my number?" House asked, brow furrowing.

"Yeah—well, sort of, you slipped it in my pocket, somehow," I frowned, "My wife found it, actually."

"Which wife was that?" John asked, leaning back in his chair, chin raised.

"My first wife."

"Whose name he can't remember," House said.

"Catherine," I supplied, glaring at him.

"Man, that's sweet," John said in a low voice, pushing his plate away. I looked from John to Jerry, stomach clenching. He was looking at Jerry like he was communicating something. I don't know what. Jerry wasn't looking at me.

"I think I'm going to go for that swim now," John continued, "Lizzy?"

"We just got done eating," she protested, then looked to House and I, "You're not supposed to do that, right? Thirty minutes, that's how long you're supposed to wait."

"I think I'll risk it," he said getting up, "Come on Liz."

I no longer had an appetite. I turned my eyes to look at Jerry and saw him watching his plate.

John and Lizzy left the table, chairs scooting loudly back. Peter and Samantha left too.

"Actually, that whole idea of waiting for half an hour isn't really true, the body metabolizes—"

"Jim," Jerry stopped me.

"Yeah?"

"Maybe you and Greg should get ready to go swimming too."

I blinked, "Okay."

  
  


The swimsuit I had was a pair of bright coloured, flowered trunks that might have fit in somewhere on the west coast but only barely. I'd bought them on the first, and consequently the last, time Julie and I had ever gone on vacation. We hadn't expected to go swimming but the hotel had had a pool, Julie wanted to swim, so I had to buy something. And apparently obnoxious neon colours are the only option in last-minute bathing suits.

House's trunks, on the other hand, were black with a blue stripe down the side. He'd gotten them for physical therapy, after the infarction, as an alternative to sweating in agony in the physical therapy room on handlebars and stirrups. The option of therapy sessions in the pool had seemed like a good idea.

It hadn't lasted. I remember picking him up from sessions at the pool and finding him just as miserable as he'd been during normal physical therapy, outside the water, only instead of just being miserable, now he was dripping wet and miserable. He'd said he'd never been afraid of swimming. Until then. He'd said he felt like he was going to drown. For an uncomfortable moment I remembered a time I'd stayed for one of his sessions and seen him bobbing up and down in the water like it was some turbulent sea rather than a chlorine filled, five foot deep pool, gasping for breath, unable to kick his legs or keep his head afloat. Since then he'd learned how to swim one legged. Or so he assured me.

As soon as we got upstairs House closed the door behind him, resting his hands on the frame for a moment as I ran both my hands through my hair, expelling a long breath.

"Not to be critical," House said slowly, turning around, "But if that guy John starts to speak in German I think we should get out of here."

"House . . ." I sighed.

He leaned back heavily against the door, "I'd bet you good money there's a swastika tattoo somewhere on his body."

I groaned, covering my eyes with a hand.

"Probably right on his ass."

"Maybe he's a little . . . aggressive," I agreed, "Let just try to be social, as nice as possible, we can get through this."

"I never trust people whose necks are thicker than their heads . . ." he continued like he hadn't even heard me.

I gave House a helpless look. He had one hand on his thigh. He pressed his lips together tightly before saying in a low voice, "This place is a nightmare for cripples."

"Come on," I urged, stepping forward to kiss the underside of his jaw, pressing him into the door as my hand trailed around to slip open the button of his jeans. He groaned, head falling back against the door. I felt his voice box vibrate under my lips as he said, "You're manipulating me."

"But my motives are pure," I replied, in between kisses.

"The hell they are," he grumbled.

I pulled back slightly to place a warm, soft kiss on his lips, opening my eyes. Despite my efforts he still looked troubled, eyes sharp and unyielding, mouth thin and pale. I brought my hand up from his jeans to his chest, over his heart.

"Us against the world," I told him.

  
  
  
  
  


When we got down to the water I observed three things. One, compared to everyone else I really should be spending more time at the gym. Two, since swimming didn't involve dumb-bells or lead-weights it must be considered strictly a leisure activity by the rich and beefy—consisting of John lounging on an inner-tube with a beer in his hand. And three, there were no tattoos visible on his body. On his chest anyway. Which was encouraging.

House had kept his t-shirt on but had gone shoeless, limping down the steps with the kind of stubbornness that would have either ended up with him beating some kind of record or laying broken and bleeding at the bottom. When we got to the boathouse, right next to the dock on the shore, he leaned his cane against a workbench, casting his eyes out across the water, eyes narrowing slightly.

On the dock the women were stretched out on brightly coloured chairs, sun-tanning, drinks just within reach. I grabbed a few towels, planning on keeping them near the dock, and pulled my shirt off. I sucked in my gut slightly as I folded it, setting it down on a somewhat dusty workbench.

House tugged his off as well, messing his hair up even more, watching me. I noticed him watching and fidgeted. He rolled his eyes and with an unadulterated scowl said, "You're better looking than any of them," he limped a step forward, pupils large in the dim light of the boathouse, "Most people's digestive systems can't handle all that protein."

I managed a smile, feeling stupid for letting it get to me, and House slipped a hand around my waist, pulling me closer to him, "I love your body—every pale, pudgy inch of it,"

"Sweet of you to say," I said, but smiled, his hand comforting on my side.

House had taken a Vicodin up at the room when we'd first got here, and then taken another when we'd changed into our swimming suits. There'd been one in the car, and two early this morning. I was pretending not to notice. I don't know whether my confidence in him was that he knew what he was doing as far as how many pills he was taking or whether I was confident he knew how to handle himself while on drugs.

We came out of the boathouse. House limped but kept his eyes forward. Jerry waved at us from the dock. John took another drink from his beer. It seemed alright.

We walked to the end of the dock. House jumped in, startling me so much I almost fell backwards. Lizzy, Samantha, and Lucy laughed, shielding themselves from the splash. I decided to just sit down on the edge of the dock and slip in. Less of a shock.

I slipped in as slowly, and as gracefully as I could, and the cold hit me harder than I thought. I wiped my eyes clear and looked down at my legs beneath the green, murky water. House was back-paddling around me, smiling. I could see his one good leg kicking under the water.

Suddenly I felt something clinging to me and I splashed to the side, hand going to my shoulder where a piece of sea-weed was snaked around my collar-bone. I plucked it off of me, as coolly as possible, then threw it across the water. Slime lingered on my fingers and on my skin where it'd stuck to me.

I dived under the water, spreading my arms then folding them tightly against my body. Under the water I opened my eyes briefly, for a few seconds in a green noiseless world, my closed fingers acting like rudders against my sides as my legs kicked steadily. I surfaced near the dock where Jerry was, taking a breath of air and looking over my shoulder for House. He was on his back, staring up into the sky. Only small ripples in the water gave away the movement of his limbs underneath.

Jerry saw me and waved briefly, already almost dry from the heat and the sun.

"Wow, this is incredible," I said to him, doggy-paddling a little to reach the dock-latter so I could float. The sun hot was above me, making the water not seem as cold.

"It's not bad," Jerry agreed.

"Definitely something you could get used to,"

Jerry was quiet for a moment then spoke, voice almost in an obvious forced casual tone, "Greg hasn't changed," he said and I turned my eyes to him, "Except for the leg."

"Ten years is a long time," I replied, taking a non-defensive approach.

"Apparently," he said distantly. I pushed off the latter and floated around, kicking my legs lazily.

He watched me, "Long enough for your brother to go queer."

I stopped swimming and felt myself sink slightly in the murky water, "Jerry—"

"I can't believe you brought him here."

"You . . . invited us."

"What was I supposed to do, Jim? Say you can't come?" he exclaimed, "Does Mom even know?"

I squinted into the bright sun, unable to see his face in the glare, "I don't think she doesn't know."

"What kind of answer is that?!"

"I don't see her that often, Jeremy, you know how she is—she hasn't left the house in twenty years."

"So you were going to wait? Bring Greg home for Hanukkah one year? It'll probably give Dad another heart-attack!"

"To what? Hear that I'm happy? You'd think the news that I'd gotten married for a fourth time would be better?"

"You were always like this, Jim, always—Mom and Dad always thought you were so perfect but all you ever did was lie to them!"

"And you never lied to them?"

"Sure, about stupid stuff like who'd I'd gone to the movies with or if I'd been drinking or not—not like the kind of shit you got away with! And they always believed you!"

"That's not true."

"You lied about what was happening to David, Jim—how did that help?!"

"I had to—there was a reason for that."

"Like what?! So that nobody at temple would look at us sideways? So everyone thought we were a perfect family?"

A sudden splash jerked my attention away from him as House surfaced from under the water nearby, "Problem, honey?"

"No," I said, breathless, straightening my legs, feet hitting deeper water where the temperature was colder, "It's okay."

Jerry was looking away.

"What's the matter, Jer?" House asked him in the same casual tone John had earlier, "Masculinity feeling threatened?"

"I'm not bringing you into this—this is between me and my brother."

"I already am in this—we're life-partners," House responded, even though I knew he hated that term. I wanted to reach for him, stop him. Don't do this, I begged him silently, "We play Parcheesi, go grocery shopping, and share the same opinions on drapery."

"You think this is funny?" Jerry asked, voice almost shaking with anger, looking like he wanted to strangle House.

"No, I think you're a lousy brother-in-law."

"You think I'd want you as a brother-in-law?!"

"Think it's bad now? Just wait until I don't remember to send you a birthday card and borrow your riding mower for bumper car practice."

Jerry's eyes, lighter than mine, flashed and his teeth were gnashing together so fiercely you could almost hear them cracking, "Some things are strictly family matters, Greg," he said sharply.

"Right," Greg said, swimming up to where I was on the ladder so he could hang on too, "Family—because that obviously means so much to you."

"What do you know about it?!"

"I know that you didn't tell any of your friends you had a brother, I know you've been too scared of bursting your bubble to call Jimmy for six years—does that scream family devotion to you? Maybe you suspected he was a homo and that didn't fit in too well with your perfect picture."

"I don't want to hear about it," Jerry warned, standing up.

"Having a freak for a brother—that's gotta hurt—what would the guys think?"

"House, stop it," I tried desperately.

"How badly does a gay brother reflect on you? Enough to disown him? Change your name?"

"House shut up!" I yelled at him.

He finally did. Jerry jumped off the dock. House glanced once at me then swam away, leaving me shivering on the dock ladder.

Later, up in our room, coming right from the dock without saying a word.

Greg sat on the bed, pulling his right leg onto the mattress with a groan as I stood at the foot of the bed, hands on my hips. He tried ignoring me. Finally he rolled his eyes, "What?!"

"Why would you do something like that?"

"You really have to ask why?"

"Because he's rich?"

"No. For his taste in wallpaper."

"You know it might have been possible, it might have been—to have a relationship with him again—six years is a long time but it's not a life time."

"He was never going to start having you over every weekend—you don't spend your whole life establishing habits than throw them away."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do."

"You grew up an only child, you have no idea what it's like!"

"Yeah, I'm just waiting for my Dad to call me up and ask me to play ball after all this time—he's not cruel, just really late."

"You can not compare Jerry to your Dad."

"I thought it was apt."

"It's not even close!"

"There is an age difference."

"And Jerry's not an abusive son of a bitch!"

"He might be now—for all you know."

"This is what this is all about? You're angry about your own fucked up family and decided to take it out on mine?"

"No. Just see no point in mincing my words."

"Oh, I see, you're trying to break it to me gently—sorry Jimmy but your brother will always hate you for being gay."

"Basically."

"You're an asshole."

"No surprises there."

My hands dropped from my hips. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I drew what air I could into my tight chest and stared directly at him, "You have no idea what you've done."

I stormed out of the room, not sure where I was going. I went halfway down the stairs, stopped, almost turning around. I ran my hands through my hair, stepping down one more step then stopping again. Damn it. Damn it, damn it.

Suddenly Lucy appeared at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Oh, hi, Jim—I was just coming to talk to you two."

"Sure," I breathed, shoving all my frustration and anger aside, still finding it hard to breathe, let alone think, "What is it?"

"Is everything alright?" she asked in a quieter voice, her long-lashed eyes regarding me with a kind of compassion that, when you're already crushed, makes you feel like bursting out into tears. Fights with House had a way of making you feel like your guts had just been torn out. I hadn't expected for her to ask.

I wiped at my cheek, taking a deep breath, "Yeah, fine," I licked my lips, searching for something to say but just ended up gesturing vaguely back up at the room, stuttering slightly, "We're just—I—no, everything's fine . . . he's just tired."

"Well you're both invited, but if he needs to take a nap, that's fine."

"Invited?"

"Do either of you play golf?"


	5. Golf

I went down to the living room. Sitting room. Big room where everyone congregated. Which everyone was.

They looked up when I came in and suddenly I was on the front page.

Pale, shaken, the poster child for anyone and everyone who'd just had a fight with their boyfriend and is torn between either screaming or bursting into tears.

They were just getting ready to leave. I'd interrupted. The overly white décor of the entire house made the sun seem more like it was still noon even though it was late afternoon. I was still wearing my swimsuit and a t-shirt. My bare-feet were sinking into the thick white carpet.

"Coming, Jim?" Jerry asked from where he was standing next to John and Peter. John and Peter continued talking with each other, Peter putting a beige cap over his head with a smile at something John had said.

I opened my mouth, raising my eyebrows, "Golf?"

"You play?" Jerry asked, tugging at the collar of his polo shirt.

I gave a half shrug, stalling, "I have played—um, I—"

"Greg can come too—I thought you guys used to play golf together."

Yeah, I thought critically as I stared at him, before he lost half of his thigh muscles and couldn't even walk without a cane, instead I said, "We used to. A long time ago."

"Well get him out here—it'll be fun, relaxing."

John detached himself from Peter and turned squinty, dark eyes to mine, "Your brother's not that good at golf—why don't you show us what you two have?"

I blinked, feeling like I was being pushed closer and closer to my limit, "I think House'll sit this one out," I said, meeting John's eyes.

"Did you ask him?" he retorted, returning my sharp tone.

"He's taking a nap," I answered.

John stared back at me, shoulders squared. Challenging me. He was waiting for me to look away but I didn't.

"Well—it'll just be you then," my brother said.

I wasn't sure what to do. Just go golfing? Forget House? Go by myself? Why did that seem so terrible at the moment? Never mind the fight House and I had just had. I knew we'd get over it. The real reason I was angry with him, the reason I was so upset now, was that I knew he was right. Things weren't going like I'd planned. Not at all. We could leave early. Didn’t have to stay.

But there's one thing I know how to do for now. One thing I know how to do better than House. I'm good at lying. At acting. At doing and saying what needs to be done and said. I can do that. And now I have to do it with my brother and his friends. But despite it all, and I know House knows this, I won't give up all hope. Not all of it. It's just how I am. Jerry's my brother. I can't just assume the worst like House can. I have to believe differently.

Jerry's eyes found mine across the living room, "Let's head out then."

I resigned to go. It'll give us both a little time apart. I need to talk to Jerry, too. At least say I'm sorry. Which seems like something I've said a lot over the years. And I guess I have. Jerry had had a completely different perspective of our childhood. I can't really blame him.

"Give me a sec?" I asked him, sidestepping towards the stairs, "I'm just gonna go talk to House real quick then I'll be right back down."

"Sure thing," Jerry responded.

I turned and went back up the stairs I'd just come down, bounding up the first few then slowing down at the top. What am I going to say to him? I'm not the one that's going to say I'm sorry. I didn't do anything wrong. But for whatever reason it was—guilt for making him feel obligated to come along, some twisted need to make our relationship seem more normal and valid than it was—I climbed the last of the stairs to our room.

He'd closed the door. I stood outside it. "House?" I called. Waited. No noise or movement on the other side. After a few seconds, bracing myself for an angry response but not hearing one, I turned the doorknob and let myself in. Only when entering the room did I hear the shower running. Great. I sighed. His cane was lying on the bed, next to a change of clothes from his suitcase. My shoes were near the end of the bed. I took a few steps forward and slipped my feet into them, leaning forward to balance myself with one hand on the bed.

I paused for a second, considering yelling at the bathroom door. Better not. These last few hours were hard for him. His leg's probably killing him, he had had to get up early—it was better he couldn't golf. I will give him space. And we will move on. Like couples should.

And I love him. I want to be with House until I die. I want to wake up next to him every morning, I want to grow old with him—I want to marry him.

That thought hit me very hard.

I nearly fell over in the doorway.

This was what this was about—that feeling—I want to marry House. I found my breath and it came out in a short laugh. It was ridiculous, right? Impossible. Wasn't it? Jerry had said that all of it, this house, his wife, was like a picture. I wanted that. I wanted Mom and Dad to know. I wanted to tell them the truth, for once.

I realized I was smiling. The shower went on running in the background. I heard the screen door shut downstairs. Maybe House'd think it was crazy, you don't need to be married to be happy, it's just a slip of paper. But I want this to be real. I know it's silly but its right. This time it's right. I felt giddy, completely overwhelmed. I can't believe this. I'm going to have to think of some way to propose. One more time. The right time.

I left the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

I didn't have anything to wear. Unlike some people I didn't have an "in case of golfing" wardrobe. I didn't have anything past "vacation wear". I hoped that wasn't a problem.

Either way they were wearing white. All white. I thought only the good guys wore all white. Isn't that true? Okay, that's not true, it wasn't all white. They were wearing white pants and white shoes but their shirts were a different colour. Peter was wearing light blue, John was wearing light orange, and Jerry was wearing beige.

The sun had arched past mid-day and was dipping toward the horizon with gathering speed. The change seemed instant compared to how bright it'd been a few hours ago, causing long shadows to pop up where there'd been nothing before, the overall brightness of the sun dimmed from the fluorescent yellow it'd been to pale gold. It was cooler too, no longer so hot it was hard to breath and a breeze had picked up, smelling of trees and water.

We walked around the house and across the lawn to a small open shed where there were two golf carts.

"You can rent these things," Jerry said, leaning over the front seat of one of them to push the starter button, "Eventually I convinced them to just let me buy it off them," he went to the other art and did the same thing, satisfied, "And then I thought, well, I have one, why not two?"

John and Peter climbed into one, their clubs already in the back, and started off, leaving Jerry and I alone. I stood next to him, bare feet itchy in my shoes, then as soon as he'd thrown the clubs in the backseat we both got in. I gripped onto the warm metal bar connecting the roof and the side as he backed up and followed across the lawn after John and Peter. I realized that this is the first time I'd been alone with my brother since we got here.

"They're just glorified scooters really," he shrugged, hands on the wheel, "Part of the whole golfing life-style I guess."

"They're nice," I conceded, looking out over the green. How far were we going?

After a moment I took a breath and looked over to him, "I want to apologize for House," I started, the wind blowing warmly through my still-damp hair, "He's obviously not that good at the whole social gathering thing."

"Yeah," he agreed.

"He didn't really mean any of it, he just gets defensive sometimes."

"Yeah—well so do I," he said, gripping the stirring wheel. I noticed his knuckles were white, "I've worked hard to get where I am, Jim," his eyes didn't move from staring straight ahead, "I'm not letting you ruin it," he said carefully, "You humiliated me in front of the people I work with."

I blinked and managed to ask, "Then why did you invite me?"

"Because I missed my brother," he said expressionlessly, pulling to a stop. He cut the small engine, finger remaining on the button as he paused, taking a breath. He sat back in his seat. I saw him open his mouth, one hand lifting to make a firm, definitive motion in the air, "I'm not going to say I'm sorry," he said, not looking at me, "I'm not going to apologize for my friends," he swallowed and looked over at me, brow furrowed, "They're my life—this is my life . . .you're not anymore . . . you're not even my brother."

He got up and out of the cart. I couldn't do anything but follow.

I looked around. It was a wide open course, with a line of trees just visible to my left and a sandy area to my right. Our shadows were cast in front of us on the grass. I grabbed my bag of clubs and dragged it from the cart as the others did the same. Everything was quiet. They weren't talking.

I looked over at Jerry, confused, "So? Who starts?"

He said nothing, just took out a club, the wind blowing through his hair. It whistled in my ears.

"You should have just lied to me, Jim," Jerry said, golf club in hand.

I didn't see John behind me. He swung and the end of the club hit me between the shoulder blades. The shock reverberated down my spine, making my legs turn to jelly and I crumpled to the grass like a rag doll.

"John!" I heard my brother shout through the deafening ringing in my ears, "With the golf club?!"

I could barely recover, barely had time to even question what's going on, limbs tingling, before two more blows hit me on my back. Twisting, I tried to turn onto my side so I could breathe but my shaking muscles wouldn't respond. The wind had been knocked out of me, I can't breathe.

"Hold on! Hold on!" I hear shouted. My brother, "Give him a—"

"This was your idea—he doesn't need a second." Peter's voice. The club hits me again, this time on my lower back. Then sideways, connecting with the soft tissue of my stomach. I curled up, drawing my knees into myself. Cough, forcing air from my lungs. My face is pressed into the grass. I tasted dirt and blades of fertilized grass between my teeth.

"What do you think you're doing?" I heard. John's cold voice, "You want to ruin your club?"

A shoe connects with my jaw and I'm thrown backwards, teeth clashing together, tongue ending up in the middle. I can barely move again when a hard metal shape, the other end of the club maybe, hits me in the face and I feel my nose shatter under the blow, blood flooding down my throat.

Get up, I scream at myself. Get up, get up. Blood is running from my broken nose down the sides of my neck. My muscles aren't getting the messages my brain is sending. I manage to turn my head to the side, able to breathe better, when it starts again. Six hits with the end of the club. All along my midsection. Internal damage. I hear "faggot" growled through clenched teeth and it all makes sense. They kick, one shoe catching the side of my head twice, my jaw, knocking a tooth out with the savage blow. I realize I've swallowed it.

"Stop!" I hear and there is movement, someone else hits the ground, I think its Jerry, "That’s enough, John, Peter—"

I rolled onto my stomach so I can spit blood out. They've stopped. The blows have stopped.

Have to say something. My tongue barely unfolds from my jaw, blood bubbling from my lips, managing to gasp out his name, "House," eyes open enough to see the blades of grass splattered in blood.

Laughter, "Never do anything half-assed, you taught me that, Jer."

"I just wanted to—what are we gonna do, he's all messed up!" the voice is frantic.

The figures are moving around me, I can sense them moving and can almost see the red and white of their shoes. Repositioning. It's going to start again.

"Stop, Jer, just stop. We'll take care of it. We throw him somewhere, he's found later—I can have all the right questions asked and all the wrong ones erased."

"What about the other one?"

Metal hit skin, bone shattered, splintered. Air left me. The pain is blinding in my side, lung collapsed. I don't hear Jerry again, I don't hear anyone again. What did they say about House? Is he safe? I have to know, don't hurt him, don't hurt him. I cling to consciousness, needing to know, needing to hear, but I slip, spiralling, and fall and fall and—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be thou not afraid; the next chapter will be up shortly, it will be from House's POV, not to scare you but well, you will just have to read it. *tears* hurt to write this *sobs* hurt!Wilson


	6. Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section of the story is from House's POV continuing right from where we left off*

I spent a long time in the shower. One, because they had incredible water pressure and two, was still trying to calm down from our fight. At the very least, even if sometimes I still went a little too far, I’d learned to remove myself, think things through, relax and not make it worse. 

I turned off the water, pushed the curtain back, and reached for the insanely soft and oversized towel hanging by the shower. I hated seeing Wilson crushed under his innate, people pleasing, self-negating tendencies. The way his brother, and his friends, were entirely and obviously inappropriate, cruel, and frankly disgusting only made Wilson try to twist himself into more polite digestible pieces for them to consume. And if his boyfriend can’t stand up for him, who can? That part I’m not sorry for. I’d stretched myself far, almost to snapping, just considering, attempting to give them a chance. Not that it made me happy to be proven right. Just wanted out of here. And wanted Wilson away from them. 

I know it hurts him. Know he wants his brother back. He was hopeful. Couldn’t deny him that. He’d hoped that somehow they’d connect, like family was supposed to, that his brother would accept him. But that isn’t happening.

I dried myself carefully. Leg sore. Swimming helped a little but fuck this whole place. The bad ju-ju was obvious from the start. Probably built on Native American burial grounds or at the center of some crossroad to hell. 

I walked naked from the bathroom. Wilson wasn’t here. His shoes are gone. Mansion is quiet. I instantly didn’t like being seperated. 

I pulled on a clean pair of boxers and packed up my belongings again. Didn’t intend on staying. I limped to the window that faced the side of the house and looked to see the wives out on the large deck off the side of the house. Well, one of the decks, I thought with an internal eye roll. No Wilson. No dude bros.

I finished getting dressed, jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed my cane and shook a hand though my hair to dry it. 

Down the stairs, though the kitchen, I found the door to the deck. As I pushed through the door it snapped back sharply and hit me in the leg. Perfect.

All the women, in various positions of repose, looked up at me, startled. Was I that scary? I be to them. A gimp with a gay thing for brown eyed repressed oncologists and a prescription drug habit. 

“Greg!” Lucy exclaimed, sitting up. She swung her legs off the arms of her chair, replacing the startled expression with a 100 watt toothy smile, “There you are!”

I came to a stop in front of them, “Where’s Wilson?” No patience.

“He went with the guys to play some golf.”

“Golf?”

“He said you wouldn’t want to play.”

“Can’t play,” I said, lifting my cane.

She looked caught off guard for the first time since I’d met her, “Want some wine?”

“When will they be back?”

“I . . .”

“An hour?” Samantha offered. She had poured a large glass of wine. For me apparently, “Sit.”

Booze would go well with the pills. I spotted a comfortable looking chair, needing to sit, and moved to accept both the wine and the chair. Lifting it to my lips I downed the whole glass. I think it was white. Samantha’s mouth was agape. And? She doesn’t know my tolerance. Or my intolerance.

“Thanks,” I said, then, “Where’s the golf course?”

“Just next door, the property borders it,,” she explained, pink lips parted in confused expression, regardless offering, “More?”

I held out my glass. Lucy, Samantha, and the other one, never paid attention to her name, seemed amused, in stark contrast to my low grade panic and glaring reproach.

The one who’s name I couldn’t remember, with the big hair, laughed, more than a little drunk already, “I hate golf, ugh!”

I took a large gulp out of the second glass of wine and stared out across the lawn, past the tree line, gauging how far it was. Too far. Uneven ground. Maybe he was just visiting with his brother. Repairing whatever damage I’d done. Having a good time. Then he’d come back, I’d apologize, he’d forgive me, and I’d show him, rather than tell, not great at that part, how much I appreciate it, take him up to our room and make him bite a pillow to stop from crying out as I gave him the best blow job of his life. Everything was probably fine.

“Me too! Let them have it,” Samantha agreed, “It’s literally not worth my time, I can’t even, god, I swear it’s just because we aren’t there that they like it so much.”

“Sammy,” Lucy sighed, “Peter loves you.”

Oh no.

“Does he really?”

“He just needs time to himself.”

Oh god. Not this. Christ.

“Men need that,” the nameless one said, looking over at me, “Right?”

I put a finger to my chest, eyes narrowing, “You’re talking to me? Are we girl talking right now?”

“Come on,” she insisted in a whiny voice that made the hair on my arms raise, “You get it!”

“Because I’m gay,” I felt my eyes roll and I downed the rest of the wine. 

“Well yeh!” she laughed. The others did too. 

One of them said, “I didn’t know any gay people before today, now I know two!” she seemed thrilled.

I pushed my thumb into my left temple, feeling the pulsing vein under the surface, “You’re all operating under a faulty hypothesis. I don’t speak girl just because I also like to touch penises.”

“Eww!”

“Eww?” I wondered. God, don’t make me have to sit here and listen to these people’s fucked up sex lives.

“I just think,” her eyes squeezed shut in a fierce, better not do that or the wrinkles, suggestion of an emotion, “You guys are so so so cute together!”

I looked around and saw the others nodding. Great. Just what I needed. Validation from these women. I already knew we were cute together. That part’s fairly obvious.

Samatha, the drunk one, not that it was an excuse, was twirling a long beaded necklace around her finger, eyes wide and staring at me, “Have you ever slept with a woman?” 

“Yep,” god let this end.

“Before you decided you were gay?”

“Nope always knew that part, more of a 60/40 situation.”

“Oh,” she slid back in her chair, looking deeply confused.

“Is sex just like way better with James?” the one with the hair asked.

I looked out again across the field. Come on Wilson.

“Just hairier,” I said offhandedly, not looking at them. Pretty sure it was none of their business, but yes, the sex was better. For a lot of reasons. I was resisting saying something meaner, and more shocking, when I saw them. Walking across the field. Thank god. Wilson we’re getting out of here. I stood up, “There they are.”

I didn’t see Wilson. 

Jeremy, Peter and John were walking casually across the lawn, presumably leaving whatever clubs they’d had elsewhere on the property, tan, laughing, missing a significant someone.

“Where’s Wilson?” I shouted when they were close enough.

Peter I think looked at me, his wife, then to Jeremy, “He’s not here?”

“Wouldn’t ask if he was,” I said as they walked toward us. One of the women, presumably his wife jumped into his arms, apparently trying to force the lack of affection issue.

“We thought he came back here,” John said, “Not much for golf.”

“He didn’t come back here.”

“He must still be walking back.”

I looked to Wilson’s brother, “You left him out there?”

Jeremy skipped a beat in his answer, a sheen of sweat had broken out along his hairline and on his upper lip, “He’ll be back.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing.”

“You must have, otherwise he would have come back with you.”  
“I don’t know,” he shrugged.

“Can I take a cart out to meet him?” I asked through clenched teeth.

“They’re locked up.”

“Fine.”

I turned on my heel. Not a problem. I’m going to go get him. Can’t walk to get him. Luckily I have a car. I walked through the house, reaching into my pocket, finding my keys. Wilson had given me a spare key to his car for emergencies. Like this one. I went straight out the front door to where the Volvo was parked. Got in. Started the engine.

Only when I backed out of the space, turning the wheel sharply to face the house did I see Lucy standing in the front doorway. Her mouth was open. Yelling something. I put the car in drive. Pedal to the floor I drove over the front lawn, swerved around the side of the house, right past the deck where the rest of them were standing. 

Spacious lawn, I thought as the wheels of the Volvo kicked up all the carefully manicured grass. I heard shouting but didn’t pay attention, just glanced in my rearview. The car bounced, unhappy, but I pushed it over the hill, following the faint lines of where their golf carts had gone, eyes scanning the grounds.

Wilson is going to be so mad. He’d be enjoying nature, taking his time walking back, and yell at me for messing up his car. I knew, he knew, I wasn’t a patient person, as a general rule, and more and more prone to impulsivity. But I didn’t see him. Anywhere. I stopped roughly at the top of a hill and threw the car in park. I got out, standing on my left leg, scanning the grass and the surrounding trees. Come on, Wilson.

His shoe. I saw it in a spot of fading sun at the end of the hill by the trees. Then I saw him. He was laying in an area of flattened grass, face down. Fuck. I got quickly back in the car. My limbs had started to shake. Drove straight to him, skidded to a stop, out of the car, no cane, falling to the ground next to him.

“Wilson,” I grabbed his shoulder and turned him over, “Oh god,” his face was a mess of blood, grass, and dirt, eyes half open, red splattered down his shirt, “No, no, no, Wilson,” I gasped, putting my hand to his neck. A pulse. Fuck, fuck fuck. I dragged my leg to the side, so I could lift him slightly, straightening his neck, opening his airway, “Wilson, god, Wilson wake up,” no response. God what happened? They couldn’t have done this. No. I leaned over him, wanting to kiss him, so he’d wake, wanting him to know I’m here, but didn’t know where to kiss him where it wouldn’t hurt. 

_ Assess his injuries _ , something in the back of my head told me. I lifted his shirt to see if the blood was just from his face. Panicked, ragged breaths twisted in my chest as my shaking hands ran over his body. There were no open wounds but bruises all over his ribs and chest. 

Plan. Had to get him help. Ambulance. No. No phone. Can’t leave him here. The Volvo, left running, was my only way out. Couldn’t carry him. Hospital. Can I move him? Should I? I was frozen for what seemed like an eternity, I should know this, I’m a doctor. Can’t think straight, don’t know what to do. 

I got my left foot planted under me, putting my arms under his shoulders and legs, “I’m gonna get you out of here,” I said to him, “If you can hear me hold on, ok? Hold onto me,” with all my strength I picked him up, my left leg, with a fraction of help from the right, lifted us both. His arms were limp, head falling into my chest. Reaching for the back door I opened it, almost falling over, then felt his arm tighten around me, a wet breath, probably blood, spattering over my shirt. 

“No, don’t talk,” I said, looking down at him, “Gotta get you in the back seat ok? Hold on,” he was gasping, legs and arms shaking. He was going into shock. Somehow lowered him in, let him go as gently as I could in the back, legs still out the door. I raced to the other side of the car, opening the door to pull him all the way in, leaning over his face.

“Wilson?” his eyes fluttered half open. I kissed him, leaning my forehead against his, “Hey, hey,” I said, breath catching in my tight throat, tears hot in my eyes, “Don’t move, you might have internal bleeding, just stay still, ok,” I moved back around to shut the other door, so clumsy, weak, damnit, getting in the driver seat, “This is gonna be bumpy,” I said to him, spinning the car around. I took off over the green, back toward the house, skidding around the concrete, back to the driveway, past their shocked faces. 

I threw my head over my shoulder once I was on an actual road. He was curled in the back, face tucked into the seat, not conscious. I put the gas pedal to the floor. We’d passed a hospital about ten miles from here. Hot tears were running down my face but no sounds was making it past my clenched teeth. Hold on. Hold on, Wilson. I love you WIlson, please, hold on.

>>>>>>

His blood was sticky and turning brown on my shirt as I reached shakily for the phone on the wall, dialing through blurry vision. The hospital had given me a cane, lost track of mine, I leaned onto it shifting my weight so I could brace myself against the wall as it rang. I didn’t know who else to call.

“Hello?”

“Cuddy,” 

“House,” she sighed, “What do you want?”

“It’s,” my voice broke, “It’s Wilson,” I took a shaking breath, couldn’t get the words out, “He’s in the hospital. They hurt him. It’s bad”

“What?” she gasped, then, because she could think clearly, I could barely stand, “Where are you?”

“St. Luke’s Hospital. Doctors just took him. I-I had to get him out of there.”

“What’s his condition?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who did this?”

“His brother. His friends.”

“Oh my god, House.”

“I didn’t know what to do”

“You got him to a hospital, you did the right thing. Have you talked to the cops?”

“No”

“Where is his brother?”

“I don’t know,.”

She paused, “House, I’m coming out there.”

“Cuddy, I--” 

“House, just stay there, ok. Are you injured?”

“No,” I looked down the hall, saw a pair of cops walking toward me.

“I’m leaving now, okay?”

“I gotta talk to the cops.”

“I’ll be there in two hours.”

I hung up and turned to the two cops. I’m sure it was obvious to them I’d been crying. Maybe less so that sitting was better than standing, most of the time.

“Mr. House?” the older one asked, hands resting on his belt.

“Yeh,” I cast my eyes across the hall to a seating area.

“You brought in the victim?”

“Yes,” then shifted my leg which was screaming, “I need to sit.”

They followed me to the chairs.

“Were you also injured?”

“No,” once sitting I pressed the heel of my hand into my thigh, grimacing, “Old football injury.”

“Ok,” the older one sat down next to me, the younger remained standing, the radio on his shoulder chattered distantly, “And James Wilson is,” he took out a small notepad, “Your friend?”

“My boyfriend.”

“Can you tell us what happened?”

His voice was low, soothing almost. I was grateful, feeling exhausted. I took a breath, “We, uh, went up his brother’s lake house, got invited there, and we had a fight and he went golfing with his brother and,” I stopped, couldn’t stop seeing him lying in the grass, “I was in the shower, he didn’t come back with them so I, then I found him,” I looked up and met his eyes, looking for understanding.

“Where did you find him?”

“On the golf course.”

“Where they’d been golfing?” I nodded, “And he was unconscious? Did he say anything to you?”

“No, he couldn’t,” I swallowed, “He didn’t really wake up,” I covered my mouth with my hand, eyes breaking focus, drifting to the floor.

“And these other two guys, do you know their names?”

“First names John and Peter,” I said, “Don’t know their last names.”

“How long between the fight and finding him was there?”

“An hour maybe?” I thought for a moment, “Long enough to beat someone near to death with golf clubs, however long that is.”

“You have reason to believe they did this?”

“I know they did. The whole day was a parade of loosely veiled homophobic remarks and matcho grandstanding,” he took notes, “Wilson hasn’t seen his brother in six years. He had no idea.”

“His brother didn’t know about you two?”

“No,” I glanced at the other cop, the hallway of the hospital seemed so quiet, “Are you sending cops out there to pick them up?”

“We’re sending a car to the address you provided us.”

“They tried to kill my boyfriend. All three of them. They’re going to try to deny it, whatever bullshit lawyer stuff they do, but they did it, proof or no proof.”

A doctor. Coming down the hall. I straightened up in my chair as the doctor came to stand behind the cop.

“What’s happening?” I asked, ignoring the cop.

“We stabilized his breathing, gave him blood, but there’s--”

“Internal bleeding? Surgery?”

“Are you a doctor?”

“We both are.”

“Ultrasound indicates it may be the only way to repair the spleen and repair the damage done to his ribs.”

“Well do it,” I said, “Now.”

The doctor hesitated, looking from me to the cop, “Is there a next of kin, someone,” he looked uncomfortable, “We should be calling.”

“I’m his next of kin. No.”

“His parents?”

“Live in Arizona. And don’t worry, he’s over 18.”

“We have to proceed with the surgery right away.”

“That’s what I told you to do.”

“You won’t have a chance to see him before we take him in,” the doctor said. I noticed blood on his gown and felt my resolve quake, my chest suddenly heaving with each breath.

“Ok,” I said, looking around me, needing something to hold onto. Alone. The doctor was standing there like an idiot, “Move!” I shouted.

He left. I inhaled finally. God. This isn’t happening. I just want to see him. Should I call his parents?

“Mr. House?” the cop. Fuck. Forgot he was there.

“What?”

“Is there anything else we should know?”

“Yeh,” I said, leveling my gaze with his, “If Wilson dies I’ll kill them myself.”

>>>>>>

“House.”

Cuddy. She was striding quickly down the hallway, heels insanely loud, fluorescent light flickering around her like she was disrupting circuits. I stayed sitting, not sure I could stand. She sank into the chair next to me and before I knew it her arms were around me. I buried my face in her hair and closed my eyes. Cuddy, I thought, feeling the tears heat in my eyes again, what am I going to do?

She pulled back, “Where is he?”

“In surgery,” I reached in my pocket for a pill, hoping she wouldn’t notice my hands shaking.

“Christ,” she sat back in her chair. She’d obviously come right from work, still dressed up, made up, “What happened? You guys were going on vacation!”

“Struck me as an odd turn of events too,” I said, rolling the bitter pill around my mouth a few times before swallowing it, then shaking my head, “They were awful. Wilson was trying so hard. I didn’t know. Didn’t know he was in danger.”

“How could you know?” she insisted, putting a hand on my arm, “This was sudden. And violent. And wrong. You couldn’t have done anything.”

Anger flared through me, better than sadness, “I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

“House you would have been hurt too. You got him here. They’re going to take care of him and the cops--did you give a statement?”

“Yeh,” I sighed, “They were apparently going to go out there and bring them in, whatever that means.”

She paused, looking around, “How long has he been in there?”

“Since I called you.”

She sighed, eyes closing. 

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Shut up, House, of course I did.”

I smiled slightly, feelings rising again in my throat, “Thank you.”

“Let me get you some coffee,” she said and got up.

>>>>>>

We didn’t talk much as we drank the coffee. I couldn’t stop thinking about our fight. Why didn’t I ever learn? Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? He’d been alone. Out there hurting. Not sure if I would find him. I couldn’t bare to think of them hitting him. Of how scared he must have been.

Then the doctor was there again. I stood up shakily.

“He’s resting,” the doctor said. I felt Cuddy’s hand in mine, “Surgery went well. We repaired all we could. We will know more in the next 24 hours”

“Can I see him?” I asked.

“You can see him but he’s not awake yet.”

“Where?”

“ICU, room 242.”

I went down the hall without looking back. Cuddy stayed behind. Talking to the doctor. Probably swinging her hospital administrator weight around. Let her get all the details. Can’t listen to that now. 

I found his room. I knew it would be bad. No way to prepare myself. They had kept the lights low in the room. Dim light from the almost gone sun was coming through the window. He was lying, sleeping, on the bed, arms supported by rolled up towels, pillows tucked around him like a nest. He looked small. He was bandaged around his jaw, head, chest, several IVs in his arm. No breathing tube. Thank god. 

Moving to the side of the bed I hooked my cane on the bedside table. He is still coming out of the anesthesia. I leaned over the bed to kiss his forehead, brushing some tangled, damp locks of brown hair from his forehead. God, he’s alive, thank god. I pulled a chair over next to him and sat so I could have my hand in his. Did he know I was here? 

I bowed my head and fought back the tears, not wanting them to start, in case they didn’t stop. I’d wasted so much time. I hadn’t told him how I felt about him, hadn’t admitted it to myself, was so wrapped up in my own bullshit for years. This can’t be it. Six months together isn’t long enough. How dare they take him from me. I felt anger pulse hot from my center. I hated them. I felt like sinking my teeth into them, felt like tearing them apart like an animal. His own brother. Why hadn’t I been there? Why did I have to say those things? If I hadn’t, maybe they wouldn’t have hurt him. The anger was suddenly and sickenly replaced by guilt. Was this my fault? I let my head rest on his thigh. I’m sorry, Wilson.


	7. Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's POV

First level of awareness was the rise and fall of my chest. Small shallow breaths that pulled and strained, in sharp, agonizing waves across my whole body. This was slowly accompanied by the sounds, the beeping and whirring of machines and the pounding of my own heart against my broken chest. Pulling my mind back to the present, like it was floating somewhere above me, hand over wrist on the tethers of consciousness, took more effort than it should. The grey, dense fog of drugs, edged now with fear, made my heart beat faster, breath quickening. And finally my eyes. I opened them to brightness and pain.

Where am I? Hospital? Last thing I remember . . .

Laughter. Cracks of my bones. Metal on skin. They’d kicked me. Beat me.

My brother. 

I don’t remember . . . 

House? I remember seeing his face above me.

House?

My eyes opened wider. He was there. He’d somehow wedged the chair to the side of my bed, put his legs up, and was resting his head next to my side. I remember . . . being in his arms? He’d picked me up. Then briefly remember the back seat of my car. What had happened?

My eyes quickly squeezed shut at the pain. Though there was morphine, dulling the intensity of the worst agony, my whole body was slowly igniting into awful awareness. 

I directed my eyes downward to my right hand and told it to move, watching it start and shake, reaching my fingers to touch his hair. I managed, with my middle and ring finger to stir the carefless curls across his brow. The small movement was enough. He opened his eyes and wide, blue, tired eyes met mine.

“Hey,” he dropped his legs and sat up, “Hey,” he took my hand, and brought it to his lips, kissing them and pressing my fingers into his rough cheek.

I took a deep painful breath and tried to clear my throat, mouth dry and sticky, “Home?”

“No,” he looked lost for a moment, “Closest hospital.”

“What--” I closed my eyes, “Did I have--?”

“Pleurectomy to repair your lung, surgical fixation for your ribs, you don’t have your spleen anymore,” he sighed, the breath coming out shaky, “I’m so sorry.”

I closed my eyes again, exhausted and having a hard time concentrating. I realized the tugging on my side was a chest tube.

“How’s the pain?” he asked, “Do you need the doctor?”

“No,” I said, “No,” I risked turning my head to look around me. It was nighttime. Quiet. I looked back to him, “I don’t remember what happened.”  
“You don’t have to,” he said, “Just rest.”

“Did--” the question caught in my throat and the fear and the confusion built up into a gasping breath, “Did my brother do this?”

“Wilson--”

“Why would he do this,” I felt my body shudder, “God, I can’t--”

He gripped my hand tighter, “I shouldn’t have left you alone with them.”

“He’s my brother.”

House shifted to lean over me, kissing me lightly, there was nothing he could say. His hand remained, smoothing over my brow.

“House” from the doorway, I saw Cuddy skid to a stop, eyes wide, hair up in a messy ponytail, two coffee cups in her hands, “Oh my god,” she said, “You’re awake!”

House turned to look at her, taking on a protective posture, then looked back to me, silently asking if it was ok.

“It’s fine,” I said tiredly.

“That coffee for me?” he asked.

“Yeh,” she handed him the coffee as he sat back, looking like a ruffled owl perched on a branch weathering a storm. 

Cuddy came over to the side of the bed, her eyes already glassy with tears, “Hey Wilson,” she said, her eyes went to the machines briefly, “I’m so glad you are awake,” her face was desperate to appear strong, optimistic, but there was a quiver to her lower lip, “It’s good,” her eyes shook as she looked me up and down, “You’re going to be ok.”

“Cuddy,” House said in a voice laden with aggravation which told me she was lying. House didn’t like anyone candy coating anything. Couldn’t he just this once though?

Movement from the door and I saw two policemen.

“Mr. Wilson?” one asked.

“Excuse me,” Cuddy demanded, “He just woke up. Can you give them ten minutes at least?” I loved her for that. I was so tired. House’s hand hadn’t left mine. Wished he could hold me.

“No,” the cop said, striding into the room, “Mr. Wilson we’ve taken your brother and two of his associates into custody. We need your official statement now.”

“He doesn’t remember anything,” House growled. 

The officer didn’t seem to care, “Mr. Wilson?”

I met the cop’s eyes and wetted my lips, “It’s just bits and pieces, I’m sorry.”

“Can you tell me who assaulted you?”

At the question my breath suddenly caught in my throat and my chest heaved as my eyes squeezed shut. Can’t.

“It was his brother Jeremey Wilson and his two gorillas,” House said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Please Officer,” Cuddy tried again.

I opened my eyes, steadying my breathing, “No,” my voice was broken and shuddering, “I can--” I took a deep breath, biting my lip for a moment to stop it from shaking, “It was my brother and John and--” my brain struggled to find the name, instead saw him standing over me, raising a club, the sun blinding me, “Peter. They, uh, hit me with clubs and kicked me, I blacked out, I can’t remember after that.” They’d been talking, laughing, as it happened, can’t remember what they’d said, was it important? I just remember the shock, so surprised, didn’t see it coming, couldn’t fight back. 

“Based on what your boyfriend’s told us we are handling this as a potential hate crime, would you support these, and other, charges against your brother and the two other men?”

Hate crime. My mind swam. I remembered hearing the word faggot and my brother telling me I should have just lied to him. I should have. What had I been thinking?

I nodded, “Yes.”

“Ok,” he put his notepad away, “Thank you, Mr. Wilson, we’ll take it from here. Sorry to disturb you,” he nodded at me and at House and turned to go.

I remember the sound of House and Cuddy talking but sleep claimed me quickly and graciously.


	8. A Phone Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> House's POV

Wilson slept for the next twelve hours. I managed a few hours of my own, on and off waking to check his vitals, get up, stretch, go pee, locked in the dull, timeless tiredness the way all hospital rooms are. Cuddy was with me a lot, brought me food, talked about dumb things, answered phone calls from the PPTH in hushed tones from the hallway. My mind only briefly wandered to the team and any case they may have. 

After Wilson woke up for a few minutes, no words, just enough for me to see his eyes, kiss him, let him know I wasn’t going anywhere, he fell back asleep and I got up stiffly from the chair. 

I didn’t want to do this. But I had to. Right? It was what people do. I didn’t want to be in this situation. Not that that mattered. Didn’t want to be the one to call his parents. I’d met them once? At his last wedding? His father, the older of the two, had looked small, complained about the food and a sensitive digestive system. His mom, like the female of the same species, was larger, brighter, more vocal and decisive. She’d ushered her husband around like he was on a leash. He seemed to enjoy it. Henry and Debbie? 

I left Wilson’s room for the first time in several hours, blinking in the brightness of the nurses’ station. 

Cuddy was suddenly next to me, “He ok?”

“Yeh, sleeping again. Stable,” I dragged a hand down my rough face, “I have to call his parents.”

“They don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” I was irritated, dreading it, “Think Wilson’s brother used his one call on anyone but a lawyer?”

“Do you want me to . . . “ she let the question trail off, “I met them at-”

“Wedding number three, yeh,”

“We can do it together.”

I consider for only a moment before nodding. We moved to sit in the empty waiting area and, since I still didn’t have my phone, it and everything else was still at the house, she took out her phone. I gave her the number, the one Wilson had written in my address book when we first started dating, who knows why, he’s just responsible that way, all the ways I’m not, and she dialed, placing the phone to her ear. Maybe I could ask Cuddy to go get our stuff. 

I took a pill as the phone rang and lifted my leg so it rested straight out in front of me. Over the last few months Wilson had mentioned in an offhanded, under the breath kind of way, wanting to tell his parents about us. I had no such desire. I know how my parents would react. They’d falsely acknowledge it for however long it took to sweep under the nearest rug and go on with appearances. The same way they had after the infarction. None of their friends knew about their disabled son. Their strong, attractive doctor son, the kind you can brag about, sure, but not reality. The most I could hope for, at least with my parents, was inviting Wilson, my heterosexual roomate, to a family holiday every decade. Maybe. But Wilson’s parents? More evidence toward him wanting family. Wanting cohesion. Now wasn’t the time to tell them. Not when one son was almost killed and the other one was responsible

“Mrs. Wilson?” Cuddy answered, “Hello, this is Lisa Cuddy, I work with your son at Princeton Plainsboro,” she listened for a moment, “Yes, it’s been some time,” she glanced at me, “Well I’m afraid it’s bad news. Your son is in the hospital following an assault,” she lowered her eyes, brow knitting together as she listened, “And what did he tell you? Ok. Yes,” she looked up again, “Yes he’s here,” she shook her head and shrugged a shoulder, mouthing  _ they know _ , “Yes, of course,” the phone left her ear and she held it out for me. When I didn’t take it right away she covered the mic with her hand, “They want to speak with you. You can do this.”

I took the phone, “Yes.”

“Greg, this is Henry,” from the background I heard, “And Debbie, you’re on speaker,” they argued for a moment, “We don’t understand what happened. Jerry told us that James was attacked when he was up at the lake, attacked by who?”

“That’s all he told you?”

“He said he was being held in jail for questioning, questioning for what? Were you there?”

“Yes I was,” I looked helplessly at Cuddy who put a hand on my shoulder, “He’s stable, made it through surgery. Wanted to be sure you were aware, you know, if you want to come up and see him, it will be a long recovery.”

“Jerry told us not to come up, said he was taking care of everything,” Henry said. I cleared my throat, closed my eyes. What had he told them? Were they not going to come see their son?

Debbie spoke, “Greg, we’re worried, who did this to James? What happened? Jerry said--”

“Forget what Jerry said,” I said sharply, too sharply, softening my voice, “What’s important is that Wilson is alive but I’m sorry, Jerry was involved.”

“Involved?” Henry, voice strained and distant, then Debbie, “He didn’t say anything about that.”

“Well he wouldn’t,” I said.

Some movement from the other line, low voices away from the receiver than Debbie’s voice, “Greg, we’re going to book the soonest flight.”

“Good,” I said.

“Take care of our son till we get there,” Henry said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, and hung up.

Cuddy took her phone back, shoving it in her purse then breathing out, “That went . . . ok.”

“As well as it could,” I said, rubbing my eyes, “But it’s only going to get worse.”


	9. A Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's POV.

I woke up and it was daytime. Even though I was still in pain my head felt more clear. As the bruises had flowered over my skin, darkening and deepening to my bones, the ache took a different, more permanent shape. And I was hungry. House was there. The nurses came in to do their checks, finally deciding to take the catheter out, which was a good sign, and let me know that I would be expected to get up and move around in the next few hours. I dreaded it, but agreed, knowing it was important.

The nurses brought my lunch, some green jello and juice, and left us alone. I felt like I could finally breathe. This wasn’t normal and we weren’t home, but I felt better knowing that every hour that passed meant we were getting closer to comfort and familiarity. I allowed myself a positive, brief daydream of recovering at home with House, sitting through a rewatch of all the Rocky movies, loving every moment of it.

House sat down next to me, his own lunch in front of him.

“I called your parents,” he said before taking a bite of his sandwich.

“You did?” of course he did, had to.

“They booked a flight,” he shifted uneasily in his chair, “Your brother wasn’t telling them the whole story,” he must have noticed my pained expression because he elaborated with, “I didn’t tell them anything more than you were okay,” raised his eyebrows, “And that he was involved,” he cleared his throat, “Not that I would have known how to tell them that their eldest has recently taken a sharp turn into hate driven, psychopath influenced, attempted homicide.”

I closed me eyes, “House, I’m not--” I couldn’t even process that, how could my parents? Regardless part of me really wanted to see them, really wanted to see my mom.

“Sorry,” he chewed, “I’m angry. Really angry.”

I nodded, picking at the jello, stomach upset, “Yeh, hard to know where to go from here.”

“True,” he considered for a moment, “Of the many downsides, the Poconos are ruined to us now.”

“And golf.”

“There’s always tennis.”

I smiled a little, “You know it’s funny,” the jello slid down my throat and felt good, cool and sweet, “Before, before it happened, when you were in the shower, before I left, I realized . . . I wanted to marry you,” his sandwich stopped midway to his mouth, “We’d had a stupid fight but all I could think about was wanting to spend the rest of my life with you,” I met his eyes which were wide and shockingly blue, “And now it just seems bizarre, almost beaten to death by my own brother, spleen-less and having a hard time eating jello,” I put the spoon down, “Crazy right?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, House.”

“I mean yes,” he said and I felt my heart skip a beat, “I want to marry you.”

“You do?”

“Seems like the tougher decision is on your part,” his eyes didn’t leave mine, “I’m not exactly a walk in the park, most of the time. And I don’t know what the future will bring, but,” he reached for my hand, “I see you there, with me, always, very clearly.”

“Ok,” I smiled, feeling tears building up at the corners of my eyes, “Of course it will have to wait till I can stand and walk and kiss you properly,”

“Logistics,”

“And my parents.”

“It’s good news. They’ll like that.”

“Maybe,” I shook my head, “Really? You always hated the idea of marriage.”

“That’s before my boyfriend was almost killed and I realized I could be out a substantial amount of life insurance.”

“That makes sense. Though if it’s a race to the finish line, you may be first.”

“Fine,” he smiled, “We can make a race out of it. So long as I’m with you.”

I finished my jello, glazing every now and again at House who looked utterly pleased, trying not to smile. Amidst all of this, this happy feeling seemed out of place, too bright, too optimistic considering how we’d gotten there and what the future no doubt had in store, but I didn’t care. House had saved my life. From the still raw part of my brain a memory emerged, of him lifting me to the car, telling me to hold onto him, and I knew I was right. Had always known. I love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end for now, friends, sudden though it may seem. There is the opportunity for a sequel but will wait to see, let me know what you think. Thank all so much for reading, thank you from the bottom of my wretched little heart.


End file.
